sirens // self para
april 23rd, 2013. the night clark got arrested.
There were sirens in the distance.
There were sirens in the distance; there were bright, engulfing flames crackling in front of him. There were spilled matches laying on the concrete next to his shoes.
The scene was surreal. Like a slow motion sequence in a film; a dream in which everything is slightly fuzzy, nothing within feels real. His eyes perused the area. Skid marks from the getaway car were about a yard away, visible only by the light from the fire.
The sirens were closer now.
There was not nearly enough time to run, though it wasn’t like it would fix anything, or make the conflagration go away. They’d left him in the dust to deal with this alone, no thought whatsoever about anything but themselves.
The light from the flames cast his shadow upon the brick wall behind him. Yellow light combining with blue and red; the outline of the culprit, blew up in living colors for the world to see.
There was the booming of a voice across the courtyard, telling him to put his hands up. Shaky arms reached up toward the stars. Wide, fearful eyes locked onto to the shadow of a gun pointed at him.
And then the slow motion wore off, the scene sped up. Fuzzy lucidity transforming into a blur of gruff voices, shoving hands, the surface of the squad car, and complete, all encompassing fear.
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The handcuffs were a lot colder than he had expected them to be. Cool metal digging dents into wrists that wouldn’t let him forget the inferno left behind. There was a song softly drifting through the speakers -– Tainted Love by Soft Cell -– providing ill-fitting ambiance to his tragic fate. The car smelled like smoke, the cop was eerily quiet, the metal around his wrists pushed harder with each turn onto a new street.
The silence of the car, only somewhat intruded by the croon of Marc Almond, led to his own contemplation. His own self-degradation, wondering why he ever let himself trust a group so much older than himself. Trying to impress wouldn’t lead to any good, he should have known this. He should have known better. And though he knew there was no use beating himself up over something that was unchangeable, he couldn’t stop the thoughts.
And then the car came to a stop, parked in front of a building. Woods Creek Police, the sign read, lit up in blue and red until the engine was turned off.
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The questioning didn’t take long. There was no point in denial when the proof had been shining like the sun just a few blocks away. There was no point in pinning any of blame on the group, either. It was his idea, after all.
His mother's words sparked up in his mind. "You made your bed, you lie in it." The cogs in his head had been hard at work, desperately searching for some answer that would get him out of this situation, like every other situation before. But as he stood in front of the phone, blank eyes locked on the keypad, there was a harrowing realization: he'd really fucked up this time.